Rain and angels
by FRC Coazze
Summary: Rain falls on Hogwarts castle. A dark figure leans wearily to a window looking at the icy drops dancing outside.   "Angels... his mother often told him about angels..."


_Disclaimer__: __The recognizable characters __and places __in this __story do not __belong __to me but __to J.K. __Rowling and __who __owns the __rights__. __The __places that are not __invented by __J.K. __Rowling__, __the plot of__this story __and__ the __original characters__ that maybe__present __in it are my possessions__, and thus __my explicit __consent__ is needed __to publish __and__/__or __translated __elsewhere __this story. This story __was not written __for profit __but __for fun__, __no copyright infringement __is intended__._

_This story __is the __translation of the original__ one, __in Italian. The original title is "Pioggia e angeli"_. _That story was my first fanfiction, and now this is my first translation!_

_Forgive me if __there are __errors __in the story__. I'm a __Non__-native English speaker, __I'm Italian__. __I do not have __a beta__-reader, __so, please, understand. __It is not __easy to translate __in to English __a story __in Italian,__because__ it's a __so wide __language that some __very long __sentences __in English are __difficult __to translate__. __If you find __relevant errors __while reading__, __please __tell me __so I can__fix__ them __right away. I leave you __to __the story__._

_Reviews are very welcome._

* * *

><p><strong>RAIN AND ANGELS<strong>

Rain.

He had always loved the rain: those crystal tears streaming down the grey cheeks of the sky, those fragments of cloud rushing down the walls of the air, like whispering sylphs, in a mad rush toward the ground.

Who ever could send them? To whom belonged those fresh tears? He wondered. Certainly not to the sky.

The man grinned, leaning against the large window and watched the gray legions crushing on the walls of the dreary landscape.

Why would the sky, in its purity, in its indifference ... up there, where they said the angels dwell ... why he, wrapped in his fluttering castes robes decorated by the sighs of the wind, the melodies of the moon, the songs of the mighty sun… why he should have sent his messengers here, in the treacherous world of mortals? Why do the angels poured their cups on this unworthy world?

So those sharp sobs really belonged to heaven? They were really angels to dwell there?

The angels ... his mother often told of angels ...

"They are good creatures, my child. -She used to say- They are pitiful creatures that bring consolation to the men ... to who needs love, to those in need of someone close. They are always there beside us."

"Are they invisible?" He once asked his mother.

She gave him a caress, passing the slender fingers on the cheek of her child. He shuddered: those hands were always so cold, the expression of a hurted soul, upset by icy winds of pain.

"Not all of them, my little one.- The woman replied with tears in her eyes- Not all of them."

And so she got up, heading toward the dark door, but, as he was to lower the brass handle, a crystalline voice stopped her: "Have you ever seen one, Mom?"

The young woman sighed. She turned slowly towards the child that was sitting, cross-legged, on the bed, looking at her with eyes full of expectation ... eyes like hers, deep and black like hers ...

She watched her child's face, so pale and bony, marked by experiences that never would have touched the soft skin of six years old child. Yet the signs were there, and they penetrated more and more in his dark irises and on their banners there were no words of consolation, there were no words of hope, but only faint sketches of misunderstanding, dazzling flashes of pain and seeds of hatred ready to germinate in that little heart still pure.

Yet, she saw nothing but her child. She did not care about those hissing beasts lurking around him, she did not care for that purple bruise on his left cheek ... she saw the heart and soul of that creature a little frightened, and she knew that they were still fresh, although besieged by shadows, they were still bright ... and they would never shut down.

"Only one.- She said with a smile- And it is here before me."

The boy smiled and slipped quickly under the bedclothes, satisfied after receiving an answer, without really thinking about what that answer meant. He turned to one side squatting in the warmth of his thin body, he closed his eyes feeling safe in the warm and protective arms of the night: a second mother for him… a godmother who guarded him every night, cradling him gently.

The woman smiled again: "Good night, Severus." She said in a whisper as he closed the door, which she had opened shortly before, silently behind her.

They had not spoken about the angels again after that night, and, slowly, he had abandoned those fantasies. He had removed them from his mind, flooded by the darkness that gradually grew up within him. The fingers of that feral darkness had grabbed the shining and dancing figures, as the sharp claws of a predator, they had captured them with the speed and the accuracy of a hawk and they had thrown them away, torn, mutilated ... the darkness had chased them down lower and lower inside of him until his soul was nothing more than a blackened shell and the crying angels were disappeared, eaten by the bird of darkness.

He had the illusion, sometimes, that he could still hear their songs ... silly naïve! His spirit was just a gray plain buffeted by warm wind and ashes ... who could live there?

The sky. The sky was the home of the angels ... certainly not the hell that was within him. His spirit was a desert, there were no angels or demons down there: all was silence and anguish ... yes, anxiety reigned there.

But he had heard the sobs of those light creatures ... oh yes, he heard them very well ... and their cries and their prayers, but he had done nothing to help them: he had let the flames to devour them, and now he felt their absence, even though he knew not to have the right to want them back. The one who had consented their agony was not entitled to look for the exiles ... no ...

His mother deserved the consolation of angels, but she had never received it because her only angel had betrayed her, he had done nothing to help her and she died alone, without the consolation of having a son next to her ... a son who was already inexorably sinking into the abyss.

The man banged a hard fist against the glass furiously, with all the anger of pain and remorse. ghost. He was nothing but a ghost ... certainly not an angel! ... Just a ghost that roams indifferent to the world, regardless of himself, regardless of what is around him. He had a single purpose, a single chain held him close to himself, when his mission would be accomplished he would simply vanished like a puff of smoke, as if he had never existed ... no one would remember him. Who can remember a ghost? Summoned one day by an old man with a long white beard dressed with a bizarre purple dress. That same old man who had tried in vain to give him a body ... crazy old wizard! You can not restore life to the dead!

The sky was crying out, but he knew he was not worthy of its tears ... and yet he wanted, he wanted to feel those tears melting with his on his pale skin. He wanted to get out ... oh yes! He wanted to be touched by the fingers of the rain, he wanted to feel the breath of angels on him, their white hands rest on his shoulders, their voices whisper sweet words ...

He stood there for a long time, leaning against the window, watching the dances of creatures, strangers to him. They were there: he could see them distinctly, they smiled at him, beckoned him to join them, to join them in their dance, but he remained motionless.

A bitter tear slipped down his cheek, clever little spark that had managed to escape from his dark eyes.

He closed his eyes for a moment, holding the other pearls from following their enterprising sister, then he turned suddenly in a dry movement with the swing of the black coat, turning his back on the gray creatures who were still calling him whispering his name.

Rain.

The tears of the angels were drops of dry dust on the ashes of his soul.


End file.
